🌧️ Whispers on Wet Streets
👉 " Rain doesn't only fall from the sky ☁️💧, sometimes it falls from the heart ❤️☔."
⚡ A City of Reflections
The next morning, puddles turned the streets into mirrors , reflecting Karachi's restless sky. People hurried with umbrellas , their feet splashing water, their faces split between laughter and frustration . The city was alive, breathing through the monsoon's rhythm.
✨ In every puddle 💦 ,
the sky writes it's story ✍️ — broken ,
scattered yet beautiful 🌈."
📸 Zoya's Restless Lens
Back in her flat, Zoya sat scrolling through the pictures from yesterday. Children, chai stalls, rushing buses , and in the middle of them all—the stranger. His image appeared again and again, as if her lens had been drawn to him without permission.
Her finger hovered over the photo. His face looked both lost and searching, broken yet unafraid.
✨ Some faces are questions❓,
not answers 💭."
☕ A Friend's Concern
Nida called again, her voice full of warmth.
📱Nida :
"Don't get lost in your storms 🌪️, Zoya.
Come over today. Pakoras again 😋!"
📱Zoya :
"I will. But Nida… have you ever seen someone and felt like they're carrying a
whole storm inside them? 🌧️💔"
Nida laughed softly, but her silence after the
laugh spoke more than words.
✨ Friends share chai ☕ , but not always
the weight of our questions ⚖️.
👤 The Third Encounter
That evening, as the rain returned in soft whispers 🌧️, Zoya walked down the same lane. Her heart quickened when she reached the bus shelter.
And there he was again. The stranger. No umbrella, no rush, just standing still—his eyes fixed on the horizon. This time, he turned fully toward her, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the storm itself paused.
Their eyes met once more. She didn't raise her camera. Not yet.
Instead, she whispered to herself: "Why do I feel like the rain brought you here?"
✨ Some stranger's pass like
rain showers🌦️, others stay like the
monsoon itself 🌊.